Nature's Tenure

The Landlord walks over his acres
     And saith in his heart “they are mine,
Only I and my own are ???
     Of the fruits of this earth, rain and shine.”
But a shadow of  ?? is ???
     The orb[?] of his lustreless eye,
While Nature goes mutely resolving
     In whom the right title may lie.

The bees wander into the meadow 
     And feed on the beautiful blooms,
The cows stand as still in the shadow 
     As they stand on the Nubian tombs.
The birds hang their lithe baby-jumpers
     On boughs of the willow and elm, 
The squirrels drink acorn-cup bumpers 
     Of dew, as if lords of the realm.

The matron plucks herbs from the hedges, 
     Whose virtue keeps sickness at bay, 
The children pull moss from the ledges 
     To carpet their Palace of Play.
The teeth of the deer-mice are sickles
     To reap where the farmer hath sown, 
The berry-vines leave but their prickles, 
     The birds take the fruit for their own.
The mole digs her subterrene [sic] tunnel
     From shock to far shock of his corn, 
The traveler drinks from his runnel A
      freshness and vigor of morn.

The Poet, whose soul-bloom is wedded 
     To Nature by sounds, music-fraught, 
And visions, that bee-like have fed it 
     With golden-hued fruit-dust of Thought, 
Has wealth in the field of his neighbor 
     More rich than the proud dullard's own,
Unbow'd by excess of his labor,
     Unforced by long vigils to groan.

Yet the while every creature is taking 
     Sweet solace or sleep in his field, 
The Landlord is weary and waking 
     For peace that his soil cannot yield.
Alas, he must still be a sharer, 
     In spite of his purchase and deeds, 
His right is no firmer or fairer
     Than the musk-rat's that mines in the reeds.
Excess over Need is oppression,
     That only is ours which is spent,
Enjoyment, alone, is possession,
     And fulness is fortune’s extent.